


Mind, Magic, Soul

by mimsical (orphan_account)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark Magic, Disturbing Themes, Eventual Romance, Grief/Mourning, Half-Blood Prince AU, Horcruxes, M/M, Magical Bond, Minor Character Death, Telepathy, sectumsempra divergence more or less, sometimes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 15:50:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7059205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/mimsical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Harry ignored her. He had just found an incantation (“Religo!”) scrawled in a margin above the intriguing words “For Enemies,” and was itching to try it out, but thought it best not to in front of Hermione. Instead, he surreptitiously folded down the corner of the page. </i>
</p><p> </p><p>Or: why Hermione was right about the dubiousness of handwritten spells, especially when Harry was concerned. He always seemed to make the unexpected happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Why Harry Should Listen to Hermione

_“Cruci—”_

“Religo!”

Malfoy collapsed like a dropped book. There was a crack as his arm hit a sink. Limp and empty-eyed he lay for a moment, a long, terrible moment where Harry froze in horror where he was crouched in the water and thought —

_What have you done?_

The words rang as clearly as if Malfoy had spoken them aloud, but instead they were in Harry’s mind.

Harry slid to his knees on the floor as the spell began to take effect. Malfoy was moving again, no longer lying lifeless, cradling his wrist. With each movement Harry felt another flicker of foreign thought in his head.

“Fuck,” Malfoy said. “My arm’s broken, you—”

 _Episkey_ , Harry thought.

Malfoy abruptly shut up.

“It fixed my nose,” Harry said aloud. “Episkey.” He dragged his gaze to the side and saw Moaning Myrtle. She was huddled, momentarily frightened, peering out from behind a stall door.

“Will you get someone?” he asked her.

She nodded and some of her glee began to return. “Ooh, Harry,” she said. “What did you do?” She rushed out through the wall before he could think to answer.

“Episkey,” Malfoy muttered. He’d found his wand where he’d dropped it and his bones snapped back into place with an audible crunch.

Harry’s wand was under his hand. He didn’t yet wrap his fingers around it. “Are you going to try an Unforgivable again?”

Malfoy scowled, dark and angry. “I seem to have no will to hurt you right now.”

Fear curled around Harry’s neck and he flinched from the alienness of it.

Footsteps pounded down the hall and Snape threw open the door. He scanned the room, barely sparing Harry longer than a glance before crossing through the puddle from the still-dripping water to kneel in front of Malfoy.

“What are you experiencing?” he asked quietly.

Malfoy drew away from him, back against the sink, wet robes sticking to the floor. He pulled up his wand between them. “Don’t touch me.”

“Why do you insist on such foolishness?” Snape snarled. “Who else do you know who can give you an experienced answer on curses?”

Curling away further, Malfoy brought his wand up to Snape’s face. He had his arm pressed to his chest as if it were still injured. “Move back.”

“He’s in my mind,” Harry said into the spreading tension. It was the only answer to what he was feeling, and it was a very unwelcome one.

Snape slowly turned his head. When no curse came, he pulled back entirely and drew his wand on Harry, who instinctively tightened his fingers on his own wand now. Snape held his gaze and Harry knew what was coming.

Snape riffled through Harry’s most recent memory and discarded it roughly in favor of tracking something else. He followed the shocks of fear that were rising and falling in waves through Harry’s throat. Behind him, Malfoy gasped. Wand clattering to the ground, he bent double over himself.

Just as suddenly and harshly Snape pulled free of Harry’s thoughts. “Your mind has no defenses this way, Draco,” he said coldly. “We both know your arm is fine, so you may as well cease to pretend you can hide.”

Malfoy’s panic was making Harry nauseous now. He gritted his teeth as the terror slowly changed to despair. Malfoy dropped his arm without pretense. His sleeve was torn from his fall. Harry found himself looking away.

“The question remains if the connection will be the same from your end,” Snape continued, still addressing Malfoy. “As for you, Potter, I suggest you consider your own stupidity before you use an unknown curse you found written in an out of date textbook on your next victim.”

Shock poured through Harry at Snape’s blatant reference to the Prince.

“Both of you will go to the Headmaster’s office at once,” Snape finished in a growl.

Harry pulled himself off the floor and across the room. Malfoy did the same. They filed out ahead of Snape, past Myrtle, floating anticipatorily in the hall. Snape dried their robes with a flick of his wand, but Harry still felt cold to the core. They encountered few people on the way to Dumbledore’s office, to Harry’s immense relief. Malfoy’s emotions were growing steadily number with each step they took. Harry hoped that was a good sign.

At the gargoyle that was the secret entrance to Dumbledore’s office, Snape coldly said, “Toffee eclairs.” They all stepped onto the rising staircase. Harry went to knock but Snape beat him to it.

“Enter,” Dumbledore called. They did. Dumbledore sat at his desk, surrounded by papers and books that he banished swiftly. He rose, his blackened hand mostly hidden beneath his sleeve.

“I believe Mr. Potter may have managed some sort of mental entrapment on Mr. Malfoy,” Snape said shortly. He pushed Harry into a chair. Nothing more than dull shock echoed through him from Malfoy, but Harry felt as though he’d been dunked in ice.

“I see,” Dumbledore said. There was no judgement in his words, but all the same Harry’s insides shriveled up. “Why don’t you each give me an account of what happened while Professor Snape runs some diagnostics?”

He looked to Harry, who cleared his throat as Snape drew his wand once more. “I… wanted to know what Malfoy was up to. I found him in the bathroom with Myrtle. He was… upset. We fought. He tried to—” Harry hesitated. The Unforgivables meant Azkaban, and Malfoy didn’t deserve that, no one did. “Well, I hit him with a spell and he collapsed. Since then I can feel his emotions. Oh, and I heard him speak in my head. Then… then Myrtle fetched Professor Snape.” He looked at the floor.

“And you, Draco?” Dumbledore asked quietly.

Malfoy finally spoke. “It’s like he said. I was displeased to be caught in a vulnerable moment. We dueled, and when I attempted the cruciatus, Potter cursed me. I lost all will to make myself attack him, and I feel his mind and emotions.” He spoke in a monotone.

Dumbledore regarded them both for a moment. “Severus?”

Snape spoke from directly behind Harry, startling him. “They are both experiencing magical shock. The spell is one of mine, never perfected for refined. Still, it should not have reacted this way. There is a magical tie connecting them that I see no immediate way to sever.”

“The spell,” Harry echoed, “was… yours? But…” He didn’t finish his thought.

“Yes, Potter,” Snape said sarcastically. “Since you seem to struggle to comprehend, my mother’s maiden name was Prince.”

Harry received this information as another dull blow. Snape. Snape, the Half-Blood Prince.

“Perhaps a remedy for shock may be in order,” Dumbledore suggested. He selected two identical bottles from a cupboard and pressed one each into their hands. Harry drank it without consideration and his head cleared immediately. He felt much calmer. When he turned he found Malfoy regarding the bottle with deep suspicion. He eventually uncorked it to peer at its contents, Dumbledore seemed content to sit and wait, so Harry just watched as Malfoy decided it was safe to drink.

No sooner than he’d swallowed it did his emotions come back much clearer to Harry. Fear and suspicion and underneath a deep, calculating need to safely escape the danger Malfoy clearly felt himself to be in.

“If I may,” Dumbledore began, “I would like to make something clear. I have theories as to what might have caused such a connection to manifest rather than a more typical form of the spell. With more time, we may have specific answers to this situation. But, Draco, make no mistake. I cannot allow you to leave this room until I am sure that Voldemort will not be able to use this to destroy you both.”

Malfoy didn’t so much as glance at Harry. His gaze was fixed somewhere behind Dumbledore. The stomach-turning panic re-curled in Harry. It seemed he was about to get answers as to what malfoy had been up to all year.

“I have not approached you for many reasons,” Dumbledore said. “Foremostly, I do not wish to see you brutally murdered for my discovery of your task.”

Malfoy flinched violently. “You can’t know… How…” His voice was thin and wavering. At some point he had wound his torn sleeve around his arm, and for good measure he was keeping it pressed palm-down against his leg.

Harry was pretty sure he knew what Malfoy was trying to hide. Somehow, having his months of suspicions confirmed wasn’t gratifying. Instead, he felt steadily more sickened.

“I do know,” Dumbledore said. “I know that, on Lord Voldemort’s orders, you have been plotting to kill me with increasing desperation all year. I am also aware that you are embroiled in a plan to break the Death Eaters into Hogwarts. And I know that, should you fail, both your life and your family’s lives are forfeit.”

Malfoy bowed his head, thinking. Something burned under his tongue and wand.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Harry said, too loud and sudden into the uneasiness. Everyone looked at him.

“Believe me, Potter,” Malfoy said. “I wasn’t going to. I’m not that stupid.” The look of disgust he sent him was vicious. Below it, Harry felt his shock at having his intentions plucked so neatly from his mind.

“And here is the impasse,” Dumbledore said. “I cannot allow someone who has access to Harry’s mind to return to Voldemort’s service. However, if you do not return, your family will be killed.”

“As if that matters to you,” Malfoy said.

“It does matter to me,” Dumbledore said. “It matters greatly.” He leaned forward. “We can protect you, Draco. The Order of the Phoenix has places you can hide. We can protect your mother. When your father is free of Azkaban, we can save him, too. Our resources will become your resources. All you must do is ask.”

Harry felt the tension in the room rise until it was almost palpable on his skin.

“I suppose I have no choice,” said Malfoy dully, tonelessly. “Not with Potter listening in on my every thought, or I on his.”

“There is always a choice,” Dumbledore said firmly. He stood from the desk in one smooth motion. “In that case, I am sorry to say that the both of you will have to be temporarily withdrawn from classes until the nature of your bond is better understood.”

This startled Harry. “Sir—”

“I will, of course, make every effort to ensure that you both will be able to complete school,” Dumbledore said with finality. “For now, however, I will not risk either of you coming to harm from magic we do not yet understand.”

This deflated Harry. “Ron and Hermione—”

“—Will be made aware that they should not worry for you,” Dumbledore said. “As for your mother, Draco, I will see to it that she is rescued as soon as possible, hopefully tonight. Does this satisfy you?”

Malfoy nodded despite the turmoil Harry sensed from him.

“Excellent,” Dumbledore said. He turned his wand on a quill that was lying on his desk. “ _Portus_. Severus, please accompany them and see to it that the situation is understood by whoever is most responsible. Remus should be present, I suspect.” He turned to Malfoy once more. “The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix can be found at Number 12, Grimmauld Place, London.”

Snape hissed dissatisfaction at the secret being shared with Malfoy, and still they all three took ahold of the Portkey and within moments were jerked away from Hogwarts to land in front of Grimmauld Place.

“Inside,” Snape said harshly, pressing at their backs.

Number 12 was the same as Harry remembered it — gloomy, oppressive, and menacing. Malfoy looked up at the house-elf heads as they passed through the hall to the kitchen.

Lupin looked up from the table. He was terribly drawn and thin. He set down the cloak he was patching and stood in astonishment. “Severus, what’s happened?” His gaze lingered on Malfoy in surprise before he turned a weak smile on Harry.

“They will be staying here for now,” Snape said. “Potter has managed to use an underdeveloped spell on Draco.” He pushed Harry further into the room and Malfoy followed him. “They’ve developed a mental connection and for obvious reasons must remain out of sight until the damage has been corrected. We will be staging a rescue mission for Narcissa Malfoy tonight.”

Lupin took the news in stride. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll see to it that they are kept safe.”

Snape nodded curtly and, with his usual sneer, departed.

“Hi,” Harry said to Lupin, who managed another smile.

“Hello, Harry,” he said. “And you, Draco. It’s been a long time since we met.”

“Professor Lupin,” Malfoy said uneasily. He was looking around the dusty kitchen. “If I can ask… where are we?”

“Why, you’re in Harry’s house,” Lupin said.

Malfoy looked (and felt) incredulous.

“Formerly,” Lupin continued, “this was the House of Black.”

“Oh,” Malfoy said. “That explains the…”

“It’s fallen into disrepair somewhat,” Lupin agreed. “The Order doesn’t use all the rooms.”

“I was going to say it explained the distinct aura of the Dark Arts,” Malfoy said. Harry sensed he was uncomfortable around Lupin.

“With the departure of Kreacher, it’s been harder to guess what in the house will attack us,” Lupin said apologetically to Harry. “Otherwise, your house remains the same, Harry.”

Harry, who deeply hated Number 12, said nothing to that.

“If you’re hungry, there’s food in the cupboards,” Lupin said. “I suspect Dumbledore will send along your things soon enough. Harry, maybe you could show Draco the room you and Ron used two summers ago? That room I know for sure to be safe.”

The dismissal was clear enough. Harry suspected Lupin had work to do. He looked at Malfoy to see if he would follow.

“Let’s go, then,” Malfoy said impatiently.

Harry tried not to be annoyed. “Just be quiet until we get up there, okay?”

“Why?” Malfoy asked.

“The portraits like to scream.” Harry still shuddered to remember Sirius’s mother’s terrible shrieks. They left Lupin to his mending and silently marched through the house to the room that had once been his and Ron’s. (He crept past Mrs. Black as quietly as possible.) The room was much the same, albeit dustier. Harry went to look out the window before turning back. “Kreacher.”

With a sudden bang, Kreacher appeared. Malfoy jumped back.

“Master calls Kreacher back to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black,” Kreacher croaked. “Master is unworthy to set foot in the Most Noble and—”

“Yeah, I get it,” Harry said. “Look who’s here.”

Kreacher then saw Malfoy and his whole demeanor changed to obsequious.

“Do you really want Draco Malfoy living in a dusty house?” Harry asked, blatantly manipulatively. He didn’t like the thought of Lupin living in a place that was slowly disintegrating around him.

“Kreacher will see to it that the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black is worthy to have someone respectable set foot in it,” Kreacher said with a nose-scraping bow.

“Great,” Harry said. “Please do that. And don’t let anyone know that Malfoy’s here, alright?”

“Kreacher lives to serve,” Kreacher said, more sourly. With a look of loathing to Harry and another furtive glance at Malfoy, Kreacher disappeared again.

“You have a house-elf?” Malfoy asked, somehow turning his surprise into disdain.

“He came with the house.” Harry didn’t really want to talk more about how he’d come to own Number 12. He was beginning to realize he’d missed dinner. “Are you hungry or anything?”

“No,” Malfoy said curtly. He sat down on one of the beds.

“Fine,” Harry said. He hesitated for a moment, wondering as to the wisdom of leaving Malfoy alone, but in the end he was more exhausted and hungry than concerned with Malfoy’s safety, so he left.

Partway through digging out some of the random food items currently stored in the pantry — beans, cauliflower, bread — the situation began to sink in. Alone now that he’d found Lupin to have vacated, presumably to his room, Harry sat down at the table, clutching a slice of bread. The details grabbed him in a uselessly upsetting order. The Prince, Harry’s clever friend who’d abandoned his Potions textbook, was none other than Severus Snape. Malfoy had indeed been up to something — he had been trying to kill Dumbledore. Harry had cast some sort of spell on him that had tied their minds together. Even now he could sense Malfoy’s hopeless discontent from across the house.

Beneath it all, Harry found what was most upsetting him. He had another person in his head. Malfoy was no Voldemort, but Harry found that he had unconsciously pressed one hand to his scar. His throat closed up and Harry swallowed down the sudden surge of emotion roughly.

Malfoy flickered uncertainly in a corner of his mind. He’d noticed that Harry was upset.

Pushing down everything that threatened to well up, Harry made himself stand. He’d crushed the one slice of bread, but there were more. Harry made himself dinner in silence. When he went back up to his bed, he found Malfoy pretending to sleep. It was early, only a little past eight, but Harry had no reason to stay awake.

“Don’t kill me in the night,” he said. Malfoy didn’t reply, so Harry let himself fall into a restless doze that was as close as he got to sleeping that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always wanted a HBP divergence from the sectumsempra scene but couldn't find one. So, well, here it is.
> 
> (save me... it wants to eat me.)


	2. Blood and Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to put some warnings in the endnote, fyi. 
> 
> also, I'm typing up this story from handwriting at the same time that I'm doing the actual writing, so, uh, it could be a little slow.

Harry woke to a loud thump. Malfoy seemed to have fallen out of bed. He groped for his glasses and sat up.

“Malfoy, what—”

“I’m fine,” Malfoy said through gritted teeth.

“You don’t look fine,” Harry said slowly. He was indeed on the floor, hunched over strangely. The feeling came over to him vaguely and slowly: apprehension and an odd, prickling pain.

Malfoy staggered to his feet. “I said I’m fine.” He hurriedly left the room and Harry heard the bathroom door slam.

He lay back down for a minute, but now his mind was churning too much to return to his previous doze. Something was _wrong_ , he thought.

Then his world erupted into agony. His skin was certainly on fire — his magic writhing around him like it, too, was in pain. Harry had never felt his magic so vividly, coiling and thrashing in pure torment. His eyes were open — his skin wasn’t really aflame — the impression of burning alive was so arresting that he couldn’t make himself move —

The pain, he realized, came from Malfoy.

It stretched on endlessly, minutes dragging past, never abating nor increasing. Here came a desperate, frantic need to make it end. Nothing like the cruciatus, Harry thought wildly. That, at least, seemed to last only moments, moments that were infinite and then not, but this, this threatened to go on forever. Harry clawed at his skin fruitlessly. There was no source of the pain that he understood, just Malfoy, so he staggered to his feet, collapsing against the wall. Slowly, dreadfully slowly, he forced his way down the hall to the bathroom. He seized the door handle, trembling, and pulled it open.

The scene took a sentence to process. Malfoy on the floor. The dripping blood smeared across his Dark Mark, and the knife he was holding as he whirled around.

“Get out!” Malfoy was screaming. “Get the fuck out, go away, get out of my head!”

Harry stumbled into the room, fell to his knees, and wrested the knife away.

“No,” Malfoy sobbed. “No, I have to get it off.”

That was the source of the pain, Harry realized. Voldemort must have discovered something, anything, to make him suspect, and he was torturing Malfoy through the Mark, and Malfoy was trying to cut off his connection to him.

Harry, wild from the pain, grabbed Malfoy’s arm. The Mark was as black as fresh ink, as charred wood, and hot enough to singe Harry’s fingers.

“Aguamenti,” he said fruitlessly. He didn’t have his wand on him. He turned on the bathtub and stuck Malfoy’s arm beneath it. Malfoy was still sobbing in his ear. Blood pooled down the drain, little flurries of it, like strange red flowers. The pain was fading infinitesimally.

Malfoy was half-collapsed atop him now, shaking convulsively. “It’ll end,” Harry said, half to himself. “He gets bored of it. It ends, I promise.”

And it was ending, Harry found, as Lupin rushed in, half-dressed, and pulled Malfoy off of him. The pain was receding.

Malfoy was barely conscious by the time Lupin had forced a Dreamless Sleep potion down his throat. The pain, Harry thought, must have been worse for him. Harry had only felt it second-hand, through their connection.

“He was trying to cut off his arm,” Harry said numbly as Lupin wrapped a bandage around the cut. “Or maybe just his Mark, I don’t know.”

“Voldemort was torturing him through it?” Lupin questioned.

“I think so,” Harry said. Malfoy was as still as a corpse in the bed. “I could feel it, too, anyway.”

“I’ll send a message to the school,” Lupin said. “I’ve seen this happen before…” His voice faded. “Will you be able to sleep?”

“Maybe,” Harry lied. He lay down once Lupin left to contact Dumbledore, or maybe Snape, and watched Malfoy’s vague form in the dark room. He could still see the shape of the bandage on his forearm. The wound had stopped bleeded once Lupin had dabbed some sort of salve on it. He replayed the scene in his mind over and over. The pain stopped, he knew, not because Voldemort didn’t intend to punish Malfoy further. No, it was a promise, a taste of what was to come.

Sick at heart, Harry stayed awake for the last few hours before dawn.

In the morning, when Harry went in search of food, he found Snape downstairs, masterfully ignoring Lupin.

“Ah, Harry,” Lupin said. “I see you’re awake.”

Harry didn’t disabuse him of the notion that he’d previously been asleep. “Good morning,” he agreed. “He’s still asleep.”

“He should be,” Lupin said. “For another twenty minutes to half an hour, anyway. I gave him a small dose.”

“If the torture continued,” Snape said maliciously, “he has spent the past three hours trapped in it, unable to move, react, or call for help.”

“He’s not in pain,” Harry said irritably. The Malfoy-sensing part of his brain was mercifully quiet, and had been since the potion had taken effect.

Snape sneered at him and turned away.

“What about his mother?” Harry asked.

Lupin answered this question from the table. “She is safe, and will likely be transferred here today or tomorrow.” He hesitated. “The time that Draco… began to feel the pain was shortly after Narcissa was removed from her home. It’s almost undoubtable that they have been discovered to be missing.”

Harry nodded, unsurprised. Ignoring the oppressive force that was Snape hovering in the corner, he made himself breakfast. He was silently washing his dishes when dazed awareness and confusion crept into his mind.

“Malfoy’s awake,” Harry said shortly.

Snape swept from the room with a dramatic flair. Harry sat back down at the table across from Lupin and rested his head in his hands for a moment.

“Did you really sleep?” Lupin asked mildly.

“No,” Harry said. “I couldn’t.” He lapsed back into silence. He tried again to imagine cutting off his own arm and a visceral shudder rolled through him.

Malfoy, distantly, was not overly pleased to see Snape. He didn’t seem to want to cooperate.

“Damn,” Harry mumbled, and then made himself rise, swaying. With Lupin’s concerned gaze on his back, he made his way up the stairs to the room.

Both Malfoy and Snape fell silent as he entered.

“This does not concern you, Potter,” Snape dismissed.

Harry ignored him. “Your mother’s fine, by the way,” he told Malfoy. “She’s safely somewhere that doesn’t involve mortal peril.”

Relief poured over Malfoy, though it didn’t show on his face.

“I can’t believe that wasn’t the first thing you told him,” Harry said to Snape before he could stop himself. “Er, sir.” Their trunks had appeared in the room at precisely 5:34 am. Harry fished cleaner clothes out of his and left to find a shower, ignoring the spiteful diatribe Snape hurled after him.

He couldn’t quite summon the nerve to open the door to the bathroom for a moment… Then he shoved the door open. No blood. Kreacher must have cleaned up, for once in his life. For a moment he genuinely hated Kreacher and the pain he’d caused Sirius. Then he pushed it aside and got on with his morning.

He was brushing his teeth when Malfoy tapped on his mind like a knock at a door. Surprised, Harry nearly toppled the vase of very dead flowers into the sink.

 _What are you doing right now?_ Malfoy said.

 _Fuck off!_ Harry replied instinctively.

 _Snape wants to know if I can spy on you_ , Malfoy clarified.

 _I’m brushing my teeth,_ Harry said, and without thinking about it or wondering if it was possible, he shoved Malfoy away.

 _Ouch_ , Malfoy said reproachfully, and retreated.

Harry spat out his toothpaste and, with morbid humor, considered drowning himself in the sink. At least then he’d have some privacy.

He successfully avoided running into Snape again by only returning to his room once Malfoy’s thoughts relaxed from the Occlumency he’d been using to keep Snape from intruding too much. Malfoy was sprawled out on his bed with a book that must’ve come from his trunk. He didn’t seem to actually be reading it, though. His forehead was creased and he was flipping through the pages backwards.

Harry decided that, since Malfoy had been prying earlier, it was only fair to return the favor. He found the connection in his mind and followed it like a rope, hand over hand until Malfoy’s thoughts buzzed around him like bees.

 _Your book’s upside down_ , Harry said.

“No, it’s not,” Malfoy said, but he’d doubted for a second. Harry had watched him double-check from inside his mind. Malfoy knew he knew, too, and was annoyed by it. “Is it true that you have a connection to—” His hesitation was fractional, but Harry heard it loud and clear. “—to You-Know-Who?”

 _You can call him the Dark Lord if you’d rather_ , Harry said dismissively, then, aloud, “What gives you that idea?”

 _Whatever, Potter._ “Snape wasn’t hinting very subtly.” Malfoy flipped another page in his book. “Also, you never shut up about your scar hurting.” He mimicking Harry’s voice. “Oh, Professor, I’m so sorry I didn’t do any homework this year, I really am, it’s just, you know,” he lowered his voice, “ _He_ ’s making my forehead all tingly again.”

“Ha ha,” Harry said, unamused. _I don’t sound like that_. “Yeah, we’re linked. Don’t go poking for it.” Being possessed was a terrible experience that he had no desire whatsoever to repeat.

 _You’re right, that was more my annoying second-year girl voice_. “Shockingly, I don’t want to be flayed from the inside-out.”

They were both uncomfortably quiet for a moment. Somehow the conversation had gotten personal. Malfoy had stopped turning pages and instead had stared at the same spot on his pillow for the past minute.

 _You’ve been possessed?_ Malfoy asked after a moment.

It took Harry a moment to realize that Malfoy hadn’t spoken aloud. _Yeah_ . He pushed the memory of horror and pain towards Malfoy for a second before dropping it away. _But according to Dumbledore I drove him out with the power of love so it’s all good._

Malfoy coughed out a laugh. _Sounds like Dumbledore._

Harry considered and discarded the idea of asking Malfoy about how he felt now, after the previous night’s… occurrence.

 _When you’re in my head I can follow your trains of thought,_ Malfoy said. _I feel fine._

Harry hastily drew back along the string between their minds. _Are you sure?_

 _Never better,_ Malfoy said with definite sarcasm and annoyance. _Are we going to sit here and have silent conversations all day, or are we going to actually do something productive?_

 _There’s not much to do here…_ Harry said dubiously.

Malfoy shared a long, incredulous pause towards him.

“Obviously there’s something you’d like to do that I can’t think of,” Harry said, irritated, as he stepped entirely back into his own mind.

Malfoy stopped pretending to read and twisted to face him. “This house has the word ancient in its title,” he said. “I mean, come on, Potter, where’s your sense of adventure? What’s on the upper floors?”

“The master bedroom where… where a hippogriff was kept for a while,” Harry remembered. “I don’t know about the rest very much.”

“And you don’t want to find out?”

Harry hesitated. He didn’t see an easy way to explain his deep distaste of the house and what being trapped here had done to Sirius.

“Or,” Malfoy said, “let me clarify. I am going to wander around and thought it would be polite to let the owner of the house know first.”

“Last time I was here random objects tried to attack everyone,” Harry warned.

Malfoy just shrugged.

“Fine,” Harry said. “But I am coming with you.”

“Fine,” Malfoy echoed, undeniably pleased by this outcome.

On the top floor, where they started, the first thing Harry found was a door with a label reading _Sirius_. He came to a halt, staring at it.

Malfoy walked a few more steps before realizing he was alone and looking back. Harry didn’t want Malfoy to know why he’d frozen to stone, but he didn’t seem able to make himself move.

“I met Pettigrew,” Malfoy said conversationally. “Last summer, I mean.” He paused to see if Harry would respond, but he didn’t. “He was awful. Very annoying, didn’t like him at all.”

Harry forced himself to move. He pressed one foot in front of the other, past Sirius’s brother Regulus’s door and pompous sign until he stood at the stairs again.

“I don’t think there’ll be much to see here.” Harry’s voice was distant even to his own ears.

“Fair enough.” Malfoy pattered down the stairs, then turned back inquisitively. Harry followed.

They found the room that bore the remnants of having housed Buckbeak the hippogriff. They wandered through several rooms, each mildly menacing and distinctly in shambles. The last door opened into a library.

“Excellent,” Malfoy said with a spark of genuine delight. Harry was irresistibly reminded of Hermione, and to his luck Malfoy seemed to miss this thought. Without a backward glance to Harry, Malfoy stepped in to peer at the titles.

Harry followed with a resigned sense that it would not be a good idea to leave Malfoy alone amidst volumes likely devoted to Dark Magic. Malfoy reached up to pull something off the top shelf and as his sleeve feel back Harry saw that the bandage was gone from his arm. He looked away before Malfoy could realize Harry had been able to see his Dark Mark again. When he chanced another glance, he found Malfoy with his sleeve neatly pulled back down, carrying a book bewilderingly titled _A World of Wicked Wivery._ He decided not to ask.

Malfoy found himself a decrepit armchair a few more shelves in and look to be planning on staying there all day. Bored, Harry stared at the shelves he was between. To his left he found _Moste Potente Potions_ and suppressed a grin to remember his and Ron’s impersonation of Crabbe and Goyle. To his right, he saw Magick Moste Evile, the book Hermione had consulted on Horcruxes. He pulled it down and after a minute of searching, found the same annoying useless description Hermione had read to him. He shoved it back onto the shelf and pulled off the one next to it, Secrets of the Darkest Art. This one was even more horrific than the last. Harry found the phrases “consumption of entrails” and “sexual gratification” in the same sentence and his stomach lurched. He quickly turned a few more pages, trying not to look very closely

 _The creation of the Horcrux is arguably the Darkest of all known rituals,_ Harry found at the start of the next chapter. _To begin—_

 _You’re concentrating hard,_ Malfoy observed casually.

Harry slammed the book shut and returned it to the shelf. _So are you, but I wasn’t poking around at you._

He had a strong impression of Malfoy rolling his eyes before returning to his book.

Resisting the urge to lean against the shelf, Harry closed his eyes for a second. Malfoy could easily look into Harry’s mind and discover the terrible secret, the one only he, Ron, Hermione, and Dumbledore knew — the way to destroy Voldemort. Harry had never been any good at Occlumency. What was to prevent Malfoy from learning this? With a sudden, gripping urgency, Harry wanted to ask Dumbledore’s advice. Surely he could come up with a solution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: blood I guess, torture, and self-mutilation... none of these are super graphic or extreme. it's just at the beginning of the chapter. no permanent physical damage, yeah?


	3. Lament

Narcissa Malfoy arrived that evening. Harry was greatly relieved to find Dumbledore accompanying her. Narcissa looked not much worse for wear, somewhat paler than usual, a little thinner. Her expression was just as cold and distant as Harry remembered, at least until she saw her son. He remembered, then, how ill Malfoy still looked. Skinny, grey-tinged, and with the air of someone who lived under a great deal of stress. Narcissa’s eyes filled with tears and simultaneous discomfort and relief rolled over Malfoy, who wished that they didn’t have an audience. 

“Sir,” Harry said hastily to Dumbledore, “if you have a minute, there were a few questions I’d like to ask you.” 

“Of course, Harry,” Dumbledore said genially. “Shall we step into the sitting room?” 

They swiftly left the Malfoys to their hellos and Harry shut the door behind him. It was a perfect opportunity, Harry realized. Malfoy was too distracted to listen in. 

Dumbledore smiled at Harry. “Your questions?” 

“Horcruxes,” Harry said. “Obviously I need to keep Malfoy from knowing about them, but my occlumency is, uh, was never very good.” 

With a slow, thoughtful nod, Dumbledore gestured for them both to sit. “It is not necessarily true that Draco should never know of your mission. I agree that at this point it is perhaps too early to gauge. However, should you feel that it would be appropriate and wise, it will be your decision to make on how much, if not all, you wish to divulge.” 

The answer was unexpected. “My decision?” Harry repeated. 

“Oh, yes,” Dumbledore said. “You are nearly recognized as an adult magically, after all, and, forgive me, many of your experiences are things that few adults ever go through.” 

“But I’ll be able to ask you,” Harry said. “You discovered that Voldemort made horcruxes.” 

At this, Dumbledore’s smile turned sad. “The reason for my visit, Harry, other than escorting Narcissa Malfoy, is to help you understand as much as possible… while there is still time.” 

Harry’s heart slowly began to fill with dread. “What do you mean?” 

Dumbledore spread his damaged hand out for Harry to see. “It is thanks to Professor Snape that the curse has been confined. However, nothing could keep it at bay forever. My time has been as limited as the next wizard, but this curse has left me with only precious small time remaining.” 

It was only with valiant effort that Harry responded. “How long?” 

“No more than six weeks, I should think,” Dumbledore said gently. “I do not fear death, Harry. I only fear that I have not done enough… I regret that I must leave you.” 

Harry nodded. He felt ice creeping into his core. Vaguely, distantly, he knew of Malfoy’s hushed conversation with his mother. He wasn’t the only one keeping secrets. 

“So what do we do now?” he asked, trying to press through the suffocating sense of grief that threatened him. 

“Now,” Dumbledore said, “we make our plans. I believe I may be on the verge of discovering one horcrux’s hiding place, and would like to hear your thoughts on it.” 

Hope snapped through Harry. “Where is it?” 

“The cave where the young Tom Riddle tormented two of his fellow orphans.” 

“The cave?” 

“Certainly it is hard to find,” Dumbledore said calmly. “Nobody looking for Voldemort would usually make the connection. And, Harry, I think that Voldemort would have been pulled back to that place by both its wildness and his memory of one of his first conquests against Muggles.” 

Harry thought of this and also what he knew of Voldemort. Disgust seared him for a moment as he thought of Malfoy in the bathroom, collapsed against Harry like Voldemort had drained the strength out of him. 

“It makes sense to me,” Harry said quietly. “I could — I could see him being drawn to a place like that.” 

“My thought as well,” Dumbledore said. “Once I have a better sense of the place, we will know with more certainty, but — well, I feel certain.” 

“When you go, can I go with you?” Harry asked quickly, fully expecting a no. 

“I believe you have earned that right,” Dumbledore said. “Especially as you may well have to do this alone soon.” 

His rationale cooled Harry’s excitement quickly. 

“In the meantime, I have some gifts for you,” Dumbledore said. “I expect the ministry will seize and examine the contents of my will, so I think it will be easiest if I simply pass them off now.” He winked at Harry, who didn’t feel ready to talk of Dumbledore’s death so lightly. 

“Firstly,” Dumbledore said, “my collection of memories of Tom Riddle must obviously become yours. I don’t know if you will glean any more meaning from them, but it wouldn’t seem right for you not to have them.” With a flourish, he produced, seemingly from thin air, a rolled-up piece of leather which he passed to Harry. 

Harry unrolled it and found it was full of small pockets, each containing a slender vial of memories. 

“Secondly,” Dumbledore continued, “the secret of the location of Grimmauld Place will pass to you. With my death, all of those knowing the secret would become secret-keepers, so it seems neater to make you the keeper instead. Thirdly… thirdly, it only seems right that you should know something.” He considered Harry for a long moment. “Many years ago, when you were freshly scarred and Lord Voldemort set for ten years in hiding, Professor Snape made me swear to never reveal why he had turned against his master — and I shall not say the reason now,” he added, forestalling the obvious question. “Merely, let us understand that both your and Severus Snape’s greatest protection is one and the same. What keeps you whole is what keeps him fighting for us.” He paused, then said with finality, “I know you dislike him, even despise him, but no matter what happens, know that you may always be sure of Professor Snape’s loyalties.” 

Harry nodded slowly. This answer, while quite as ambiguous as all the others, seemed much more firm than he’d heard before. What Harry’s greatest protection was — well, Harry thought, as it was Dumbledore, he could only assume the answer was love. He couldn't imagine Snape and love in the same sentence with a straight face, but Dumbledore seemed convinced, so he said, “I can trust him to be on our side.” 

“No matter how things may seem,” Dumbledore insisted. 

“No matter…” Harry echoed. 

Dumbledore seemed reassured. “Well, Harry, we should see to our guests. I will return, let’s say, Thursday, to discuss the matter of Lord Voldemort’s horcruxes in more depth.” He rose. 

“Sir—” Harry forestalled. “Is there really — really no way —” 

Dumbledore understood. “It is the end,” he said softly. 

Harry swallowed down a bitter rush of tears and nodded. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> right, it's worth noting - the tags say "minor character death" which is true. I don't plan on killing major characters, but, you know, that doesn't mean there won't be death still.


	4. Losing Our Heads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maybe just assume that i tagged this with disturbing content for a reason. warnings at the bottom.

Dumbledore said he would return on Thursday, four days later. But it was Wednesday that mattered. Harry woke to an ear-shredding scream, a woman’s wail of pure horror. Malfoy reacted even faster than Harry at the sound of his mother’s voice. Harry chased him down the stairs, into the kitchen, where Narcissa lay crumpled on the floor in front of the crows. Strangely, it was them that Harry saw first. On on top of the pantry, one in the windowsill. Two clawed at Narcissa’s face and hair and three clustered around Lucius Malfoy’s severed head. Draco was frozen in the doorway as if time had stopped for him.

Harry beat the crows off of Narcissa and shooed them out the window. He unbuttoned his shirt and, trying hard not to touch the — the head with his bare hands, draped it over Lucius’s staring eyes. Six of the crows had soared off now. The one on the pantry was still regarding them with a cocked head.

“Go away,” Harry snarled at it. “Or do you think you haven’t done enough?” When he went to beat the bird with a hand, it took off with a squawk of displeasure.

Still nothing from Draco. Harry knelt in front of Narcissa. “Mrs. Malfoy?” he asked. “Mrs. Malfoy, do you hear me?”

She sat unresponsive, staring through Harry’s pajama shirt to her husband’s distended features.

Then Lupin was there, and he pushed Harry aside.  He bent over Narcissa Malfoy, speaking urgently. Lupin tried to move her but jerked away as if he'd received a bad electric shock.

As if from a great distance, Draco turned his gaze on Harry. “He…he said…” The words came with great difficulty. “...safe in Azkaban…”

“I know,” Harry said. The decapitated head drew his attention like a magnet. Resolutely he kept his eyes on Draco, and his mind as well. He felt Draco’s knees give out and moved to catch him faster than his eyes could process. They both went to the floor, and Harry pulled Draco against him, shielding him from the sight with the angle of their bodies. Draco was only limp for a minute before he began to struggle. Harry held on, thinking Draco would run out, but instead he clawed at the floor. Even now the bond held—Draco couldn't hurt Harry, but he clearly wanted to. He wanted to rip the skin from Harry's bones and his eyes from his face and rail against everyone — anyone — the whole lot who had stolen his father from him. The light overhead burst and glass hit the walls. Draco was pulling away now, pushing free — the cabinet door ripped from its hinges. Lupine carried Narcissa from the room. She was completely limp in his arms.

Draco's voice was half-sob and half-scream. Something in him seemed broken open, and raw, agonized fury rolled through him like a thunderclap. Harry didn't listen for words. He just held Draco down with his own body as the room tore apart with the force of his grief. Harry’s shirt hit the wall, but not a single hair on Lucius’s skull stirred.

Draco’s body trembled and Harry tasted salt. Tears, maybe blood, his own pain or Draco’s he didn’t know. Draco finally pulled free of him and Harry ran after him, up and up the stairs.

“Stop following me!” Draco shouted, or perhaps he said it into Harry’s mind. The door slammed against Harry and he shoved it back open despite the pain. He dragged Draco onto the bed — Sirius’s bed — for a moment, they were both still. Harry retreated up onto the pillows and shut the door with a thought.

“Hit me,” he said to Draco’s tear-streaked face. “Isn’t it my fault? Go on, hit me!”

“No,” Draco said. “He’s not, he’s not, he can’t be—”With a wail he clawed at his own scalp and face, leaving red scratches. “I can’t, I can’t, I—”

Harry reached out with his own mind. The thoughtless, raging grief he’d felt after Sirius’s death threatened him for a moment. Or maybe Draco’s agony was just familiar enough that he was remembering.

He understood now why Dumbledore had sat quietly while Harry destroyed his office. What he wouldn’t give to take this away, to replace Draco’s terror with gentleness, to undo these minutes until Lucius Malfoy walked in the door as his wife had, whole, broken, and Draco wept silently into the dusty bedsheets. His body was convulsing as if his external rage had turned against his body. Harry was afraid he’d rip himself apart.

Harry opened a single thought to him. _I’m sorry_ , he said, and let his sorrow and empathy wash over Draco as if it could balm his wounds. _I’m sorry._

Silently, wordless, Draco begged him, so Harry dragged some of the blanket free and wrapped them both in it until he couldn’t tell where his limbs and compassion ended and Draco’s tremors and grief began. He held him until he was deep enough into shock that he lay still. No more tears, just cold that curled in his chest like a knife wound. They lay in silence. Some floors below Narcissa was keening like an animal whose legs had been crushed in a trap.

 _How do you bear it?_ Draco whispered.

 _You don’t,_ Harry said. _You live with it until it begins to fade._

With the ghosts of memories settling around them like the cobwebs in the corners, Harry ran peace through Draco over and over like a brush through hair until, against his will, Draco stilled into half-sleep.

_It’s not fair._

_No, it’s not_. Harry held on tighter. Draco pressed at his mind a little until he backed off his mental grip slightly. Something sharp and freezing was curled around Draco, something desperately calculating.

Downstairs, Narcissa’s voice abruptly cut off.

“Dumbledore’s at least partly responsible,” Draco said simply.

Harry just nodded. He thought of Sirius, trapped in the house he hated so much, completely alone.

“But, still, I think I’ll kill the Dark Lord first,” Draco concluded.

Startled, Harry laughed.

“Funny, Potter?”

“No,” Harry said. “That’s why I mean to kill him, too. Because he destroyed everything I had and then does the same to my friends.”

 _Saint Potter,_ Draco thought. Aloud: “So you _are_ meant to kill him?”

“Sleep,” Harry said. “I’ll tell you about it later if you still want to hear it.” After they alerted someone about Lucius. After they considered if anyone could have tracked the crows. After some sort of funeral, probably.

 _After_ , Draco agreed. The cold knife in his chest grew until it reached his mind, and then he fell into unconsciousness.

Now that Harry was looking at him properly, he saw where Draco had gouged at his face, leaving scratches like trenches on his skin. Hopefully they could do something about that. Slightly embarrassed to be entangled with another teenage boy now that one of them was asleep, Harry carefully slid back a couple of inches. The neat spread of blond hair across the counter and waxy, distorted, already rotting features haunted his mind. Barely asleep, Draco shifted restlessly.

A floorboard creaked and footsteps came down the hall. “Harry? Draco?” Lupin called quietly.

Harry untangled himself fully and opened the door an inch. Lupin peered in like a shadow.

He frowned. “Draco’s asleep?”

“Shh,” Harry answered.

Lupin pulled out the same vial of Dreamless Sleep he’d given Draco only a few nights prior. They tilted it down Draco’s throat carefully.

“I think I put him under with my mind,” Harry said.

“Actually, it could be magical exhaustion,” Lupin said. “Or, likely, both.” He looked and sounded as weary as Harry felt. “He effectively destroyed the kitchen.”

“We should do something about that,” Harry agreed. He remembered Dumbledore and Slughorn putting a room back together with magic.

Lupin shook his head. “You shouldn’t have to see… that. Stay here while I do it.”

“I’ve seen worse,” Harry said. “I’ll get a new shirt and meet you down there in five minutes.” He darted past Lupin before he had a chance to argue again and made his way down the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> death, injuries


End file.
